


love lasts so long

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Marriage Proposal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25582804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: The shock of his grappling hook is enough to render you motionless as you writhe on the ground like a worm before sitting up and studying the aftermath. Namely, the piercing claw that’s implanted itself into your thigh.The Mandaloriansighs.“Did you just fucking sigh? You—youstabbedme."
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 14
Kudos: 179





	love lasts so long

**Author's Note:**

> not much to say except i wrote this in 30 minutes because i'm horny for mando fluff, there's literally no plot whatsoever, but i think we can all agree the mando deserves sum good fuck

It’s pretty appalling.

The shock of his grappling hook is enough to render you motionless as you writhe on the ground like a worm before sitting up and studying the aftermath. Namely, the piercing claw that’s implanted itself into your thigh.

The Mandalorian _sighs_.

“Did you just fucking sigh? You— _you_ stabbed _me_ ,” you hiss through gritted teeth, staring at the bloody wound. “You STABBED ME.”

“I can see that.” He sighs _again_ , “You were supposed to…catch it.” The words crumble fast in his mouth, sounding even stupider as it comes rendered through his modulator.

“ _YOU STABBED ME_!” You shriek, and had it not been for the searing pain of the fucking claw piercing your thigh, you surely would’ve stomped your way across the field and pummeled him over the helmet over and over until you exhausted yourself.

But no, you stay rooted to the ground, staring at the blade wedged in your flesh. Blood pooling down your leg in streams like a goddamn geyser. Every instinct is screaming for you to pull the sucker out, but the functioning half of your brain is yelling _you are going to fucking die if you pull that hook out_. Worst case scenario, he’s hit your femoral artery, which means the hook is now keeping you alive and if you so much as move it _you will bleed out and you will die_.

"Just--look."

"I'm _looking_ ," you seethe, staring daggers at him until you see something shiny from your periphery, hanging in the middle of the grappling line.

It's a ring.

 _Oh_.

"Yeah," he says, crossing his arms over his chest as if he's won some cheap parlor game you never said you were participating in. "Aren't you glad you looked?"

You look at him, then back at the ring.

You look at the ring, then back at him.

“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY,” you screech. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU THAT YOU CAN’T PROPOSE LIKE A NORMAL PERSON. MAKER, I SWEAR THAT HELMET OF YOURS SERIOUSLY DOES THINGS—"

“Fine, sorry.”

Huh. The apology is somehow even weirder than the proposal.

You laugh because there’s truly nothing else you can muster out. So fucking ridiculous—this guy. Not a single romantic bone in his body whatsoever, just a whole lot of poorly planned ideas he’s too prideful to un-commit himself to. And hey, normally you’d go along with them because humility isn't exactly your strong suit either but you'd like to think you're smart enough to back out when the alternative _involves_ you bleeding out on the ground.

“So,” he shuffles a bit, kicking away dirt in the field. “Your answer.”

“My answer?”

"Yeah, answer."

"You want my answer."

"Was I not clear the first time?"

You look down at the grappling hook. The adrenaline rush has already worn off and the _pain_ of the blade is beginning to dawn on you, throbbing and hot like your thigh alone is experiencing a fever the rest of your body isn’t. You break into a cold sweat, but everything under your waist is _searing_. Weird how things work like that.

It's your turn to sigh. "Could you...at least put the ring on me, crazy," you muster out between gritted teeth because it's literally taking every ounce of strength for you not to keel over and wail in agony.

He obliges, not saying much. But you’ve gotten pretty good at reading him anyway.

There’s a little skip in his step as he runs towards you, snipping the line as the remaining length goes slack against your leg. He doesn’t drop down to one knee, just takes the ring and slips it onto your finger as you continue to bleed out on the ground.

“By the way, my answer is yes,” you say, voice garbled and slow as you look up and take in your own reflection in his helmet. “Excuse me but I think I’m going to pass out now.”

“Wait—”

You keep your promise and collapse forward. He catches you by the shoulders before you can hit the ground. He grunts, the dead weight of your body enough to make him bend his knees. But it doesn’t matter because your face doesn’t hit the ground and he cradles you gently against his shoulder, sighing a happy sigh.

*

You wake up later in the medical bay, staring up the white fluorescent lights with one gloved hand resting on your now very, _very_ sore thigh. Everything about your body feels sticky with sweat, but at least the fever in your leg has died down.

The Mandalorian is sitting at your bedside, apparently ruminating on something because he doesn't even notice you've opened your eyes until you clear your throat. "Are you OK?"

"I should be asking you that," he says. "How's your thigh?"

"Seen better days, I'm sure."

"Ah." He pauses, helmet lowering just a smidgen. "Sorry."

It's _weird_ hear him apologize so much. You decide not to address it if only to make him stop, and apparently it works because he heaves a sigh and moves on.

“I was thinking…you should know my name.”

“I already know—”

He sighs, “It’s not _Mandalorian_.”

“But—”

“And it’s not Mando either.”

You shut up. “I knew that,” you whisper, but you didn’t. You _so_ didn’t. The sad thing is you know that, _he knows that_ , pretty much everyone on this ship probably knows that, even the kid sleeping quietly away in the bunker down the hall.

He takes a breath, standing up to take a seat on the edge of your resting cot, back facing you. His hand is no longer resting on your thigh and you miss the warmth of his palm so you reach out for it, cradling it against your cheek. It’s a pretty rare domestic sight all things considered. The two of you have been moving for what feels like a _long_ time with no signs of stopping, maybe other than your little sparring session in the open, grassy fields of Maridun.

“Din,” he says, quietly.

You weigh it in your mind, trying memorize every facet of this moment—from the curve of his helmet to the way his chest plate moves with each breath he takes.

“Din,” you say, and it’s enough to make him shift his gaze. Oh, he likes the way his name sounds in your mouth, probably among other things, but you decide to keep that little tidbit to yourself. “That’s a nice name.”

He looks at you, but weirdly enough it gets harder to read him this time.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You laugh a little.

So far the two of you have managed to find way to skirt the rules, whether it’s you removing your shirt and putting on a show or him keeping the beskar armor on, which—let’s be honest—is pretty fucking sexy. And so far it’s been pretty fun, even if you are doing things that comes naturally to a relationship completely out of order. A kiss seems like a pretty benign request, but you know it comes at the expense of his entire culture, so it’s been a conversation the both of you have avoided for _months_.

And it _has_ been months since you started—whatever this is. An illicit affair from a series of happenstance meetings that’s evolved into so, _so_ much more.

“I’ll close my eyes,” you tell him. “And you can turn off the lights if you want.”

He considers it, quietly, and apparently makes his mind up when you’re not looking because he immediately turns off the light before coming to you.

“Eyes closed,” he says and you comply, eyes fluttering shut as you feel the cold metal of his beskar armor pressing through your shirt against your breast.

There’s some clinking, followed by a breath.

“Wow, even your breathing is sexy without the modulator,” you tell him, lips curling up into a smile. “Maybe we should do this—”

But the next thing you feel are his lips against yours—and they’re full and soft, so comforting you almost feel your eyes well up with tears. Warmth immediately fills your chest, as you pry for his shoulders, hands winding through his hair. And he has a nice full head of hair that you run your fingers through, trying to remember every strand. With your eyes closed, _everything_ about this moment is overstimulating, even though you haven’t even parted your lips yet to taste his tongue.

He pulls back and you’re _so_ tempted to open your eyes to take stock of every inch of his face, but you condemn yourself to the darkness as you feel his lips press against your cheek before they press against your forehead.

“I love you,” he says.

And then what he doesn’t say aloud: _I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I want to kiss you and only you, and I want to love you and only you, maker and stars be damned_. But you're so taken by the sound of his voice without the modulator and helmet that you immediately feel your heart skip a beat. Weird how that can happen even though you're the one set to marry him.

“I’d say I love you more but I wouldn’t want to make this a competition,” you murmur. “Especially when only one of us is playing to win.”

“Yeah, _you_.”

You can hear the clink of the helmet as it slides back on, but it isn’t until the lights flicker on that you open your eyes and take in the sight of him before you. "I wanted more time," you tell him, pouting.

"There'll be more time in the future."

Your heart soars at the prospect of a future. _Right_. A future. Because your lives are tethered now. You glance down at the ring on your finger and feel a smile curl up on your lips as you turn back to face him.

The thumb of his gloved hand is resting on your chin because he’s apparently studying you just as much as you’re studying him. It’s a pretty unfair trade but you’re used to it at this point. Besides, you like the helmet. It gives him the whole dark and mysterious aura that you find cheesy and endearing in equal measure.

“What—I have something on my face?” You ask, grinning.

“Yeah,” he stands up, heading to the door. “Pretty.”

You blush.

 _Of course you would_.

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing star wars... i literally know little to nothing about the intricacies of this universe so forgive me....if u wanna scream at me im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)
> 
> title is a not so subtle nod to seven on tay swift's new album that shit slaps
> 
> thinkin about making this an anthology but also just gonna keep this one chapter for now cuz i love setting low expectations for myself :')


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